The Friend Who Makes Me Sick: A Tale of Terrifying Friendship
I’ve always been a private person, preferring solitude to noisy gatherings. After getting married, I felt I’d found all the warmth, understanding, and support in my husband that I might have lacked before. Our little world of two was cosy and comfortable. My friendships were few but strong—two close friends, though we lived in different towns, we’d call or message occasionally. It was the kind of bond that didn’t need constant upkeep but was genuine when it mattered. And that was enough for me.
Then there was her. Lucinda.
How she slipped into my life, I can’t even explain. We met by chance, chatted, swapped numbers. At first, it was all harmless—birthday wishes, small favours, gestures of kindness. Lucinda wove herself into my days so subtly that unravelling it seemed impossible. It all felt so sweet. Until I realised: we weren’t on the same path. She moved in different circles, and around my friends and colleagues, her familiarity often embarrassed me. Her jokes would land in dead silence, which I’d desperately fill with forced laughter or excuses. I’d always defend her the same way: “Lucinda’s got a big heart. Don’t judge her by her manners.”
She had a knack for showing up the moment I had guests—uninvited, always with a bottle of sparkling wine, even if it clashed with my company’s tastes. And every time, there’d be a toast—long, dramatic, painting me as something just short of divine. “…though Margaret and I aren’t sisters by blood, we’re cut from the same cloth…” Mortifying.
My husband couldn’t stand her. He said I let her manipulate me because I was too soft. He’d counter her rambling praise with equally exaggerated compliments, then excuse himself, leaving me alone in this absurd little theatre. We fought about her often. I accused him of snobbery; he accused me of blind loyalty.
But here’s the heart of it. Lucinda had been around for twelve years. And in all that time, nothing truly disastrous happened. Then it started.
For one birthday, she gifted me a lovely lace lingerie set. After the first wear, my skin broke out in a rash. The diagnosis? A synthetic fabric allergy. Cotton only from then on. Back then, I never connected it to her.
A few months later, my gently wavy hair turned frizzy, matted into tangled clumps that fell out in handfuls. I suffered until I finally threw out the hairbrush—another gift from Lucinda. Slowly, my hair recovered.
Then came the missing money—a large sum, gone from my purse. The very purse she’d given me for Mother’s Day. My husband muttered under his breath for the first time: “Who else would pick such a hideous design?”
My daughter, Emily, began feeling ill after every visit—nausea, fever, vomiting. My husband joked darkly, “Em’s sick of Lucinda.” I laughed. I shouldn’t have.
Our cat, Whiskers—gentle, neutered, unflappable—had lived with us for seven years. Once, while we were away for two days, Lucinda offered to look after him. When we returned, he attacked me out of nowhere, clawing my shoulder bloody. After that, he was never the same. Every time he acted strange, someone would say, “…ever since he stayed with Lucinda…”
I still didn’t piece it together. Until the moment everything changed.
Seeing Lucinda out, I absently picked up the remote and switched the TV to the hidden camera feed in the hallway—a secret only my family knew.
On the screen, I watched as Lucinda crouched by our door… scrubbing the doormat. Then she stood on tiptoe, pulled something from her bag, and wedged it above the doorframe before leaving.
Numb, I ran my hand along the frame—and flinched. Three rusty needles jutted out. Beneath the mat, arranged in an odd pattern, were grains. I’d never have seen them—the cleaner always mopped under it.
I wrapped the needles and grains in paper and waited for my husband.
He called me a fool—the first time in fifteen years of marriage, but not unfairly. He gathered every gift Lucinda had ever given us, from cards to brooches, drove out of town, and dumped them in a bog. “So no one else finds them.”
I called Lucinda and said only:
“You know what you’ve done. Make sure we never meet again. It’s in your best interest.”
Then I had the house blessed. And just like that, she was gone.
With her departure, the strangeness stopped—Emily wasn’t sick anymore, Whiskers settled. But I still can’t wear synthetic fabric. A reminder: *Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.*
I never believed in curses. Now… now I’m not so sure.
